So I'm in Wee Nephew's classroom trying to discretely fit one of my asscheeks on a tiny chair while waiting for his class to be called outside for field-and-play day. He's already hugged me and forgotten me, or so I thought until, looking up from the book I'd brought (See You In The Cosmos by Jack Cheng), I notice kids darting glances at me while he works the room. Then I overhear him tell a moppet, "My uncle writes books," and the moppet's eyes brighten. I realize he's been telling every table in the room. Tiny smiley bodies start approaching me. "Do you really write books?" "What kind of books do you write?" "Have you done a Star Wars book?" (this by a kid who mistook the Enterprise shirt I wore for Luke & Co; I let him slide)

I told them I write science fiction for grown ups but I've been working on a book for kids. They lit up. When one kid left, another one came up. There's another classroom in another school that I owe a book to too. I haven't forgotten. The kids today reminded me that there's still excitement in the word. Kids want to be amazed. They want stories. No matter how gadget-driven we think they are, they haven't forgotten that books are magic.​I'm glad they reminded me.